America's Next Star

by Katie Dozier

  She stomped out of the studios, but at least she got to wear her glasses again. And I don’t think there would’ve been any turning back on the way she quit even if my convincing had registered to her. All of us Comets were told so many times that if we followed the exact Beam protocol for leaving then we were no longer on the show anymore the second we uttered the last “I quit!”

  The only surprising aspect was that it took the flying monkeys, I mean the security team, as long as it did to remove her from the Universe. Before they hauled May away, E.T. himself cut off her Beam and tucked it in his pocket before calming himself with an extra-large ration of Reese’s Pieces.

  That left the other Astronauts with time to fill, since they thought a Blast-Off Battle with only me would hurt ratings. Since I’d essentially committed Solar Stadium suicide—it was like I’d already lost a Blast-Off Battle with myself anyway. Even though I was still—at least technically—on the show. But it was hard to imagine a more hollow victory.

  Instead, they held a last minute stadium vote for which Comet would perform again that night.

  In a neck-and-neck poll versus Carrie, the jerk with the six-pack eked out a victory.

  Back in my room, shut out from the world, I put Mom’s necklace back on, and my nail caught a little groove that I hadn’t felt before. I guessed maybe the wire in my bra had attacked it while I was on stage.

  There was a series of knocks coming from inside the glass elevator in my room—like the tail of a rattlesnake. My Beam sounded green, then directed me towards the elevator. I knew that with May gone, it could only be one person here, my friend—turned possible boyfriend, turned definite enemy. I switched directions to hide in the bathroom and my Beam flashed a red “X.”

  Faster than I could snap, E.T.’s face appeared on my Beam, with his hand pressed to the deep lines on his forehead.

  “Let me make this simple, Ella. Go talk to Preston or I’ll pull the plug on your vocal trainings this week.”

  “You can do that?” I asked.

  For the first time ever, I heard E.T. laugh.

  “Haven’t you realized yet? I’m an Astronaut. I can do anything.”

  Mercifully, my Beam switched from E.T.’s face back to the green arrow as soon as I started to head towards the elevator and another conversation I didn’t want to have.

  “Come on, Ella, let me explain,” Preston said.

  “There’s nothing to explain. Go away!” I shouted at him, blocking him from leaving the elevator.

  “She isn’t my girlfriend.”

  I wove mindless circles in front of him on my bare feet, like an animal ready to pounce. He held a pizza, and from his leather jacket there were two bottle caps peeking out.

  That’s when I got close enough to him to see that on his Beam, which was formed with two miniature buck antlers, there was blinking green text with the tiny font “Convince Ella.” As soon as I’d glimpsed the text, the face went blank, which had the effect of a child proven guilty by an overly exuberant declaration of innocence.

  Stupid me. It hadn’t turned into a game he was playing with me, it had always been a game. And we were competitors in the biggest game of all time.

  “Tina isn’t my girlfriend,” he repeated.

  “Really?” I said, batting my eyes. “Silly me. See I was thinking you screwed with my head to mess me up right before I went on.”

  “No. Honestly—we dated back in high school, and she tried to restart things once she heard I got on the show. And if I weren’t a southern gentleman, I’d say that I would only ‘screw you right before you went on’ if you asked.”

  I channeled my best Tiffanie impression and attempted to cover a blush on my cheeks that wasn’t actually there.

  “Sorry, I was just kidding. I didn’t know they would spin the interview like that,” he said. “Did you even see yours? They had a clip of you saying you wanted to be a vampire and you screaming, ‘I am goth!’”

  I opened it wide enough to see one of his eyes again.

  “I didn’t say that! I said I wasn’t goth when they told me I was for the millionth time.”

  “I’m sure it was frankenbiting,” he said.

  “Franken-waiting?”

  “Frankenbiting, when they edit your clips to make it sound like you said something you really didn’t. Reality shows do it all the time. Honestly, I had no clue about Tina, I’m sorry. I swear on Bubba the UGA dawg, she’s not my girlfriend.”

  I wasn’t yet sure why he was telling me all of this, but for the first time in the Universe, I finally felt like I had an upper hand in something, and I wasn’t going to be stupid all over again by telling him I knew he was trying to play me. No matter how tempting it was to call him out for the liar he so obviously was.

  “Come on. I can’t eat this whole pizza by myself.”

  Well that may have been true at least.

  “Now that is a lie,” I said, amused by my secret irony. “But is it gluten-free?”

  He walked in and opened the box on the coffee table.

  “Actually I ordered it with extra gluten. Thought you could use it tonight.”

  “You know I’m not really allowed to eat that. I’m on Zee’s super strict meal plan.”

  “Which is why I snuck this up to you— like a secret agent.”

  His hair was mushed to his head in the indent made by his cowboy hat. There wasn’t powder on his face, and he was wearing his cute bulldog slippers again. Unlike when he’d kissed me, he looked real again.

  “Come here,” he said from the couch.

  Now I knew what the show wanted from me—to fall for this guy. Let’s ignore that I kind of had earlier, and that it was so messed up. The thought of cuddling with him made me feel like a traitor to myself, but if I didn’t then he would know I wasn’t buying his act.

  I curled my knees into his side as he handed me a slice on the purple loveseat.

  “You know, it’s not that bad,” he said.

  “No, the pizza’s pretty good actually.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Not that bad? I was the worst in the history of ANS . Textbook epic fail. Like the opposite of you. Did you even see me on stage? I can already feel the internet hate, see the ‘worst Comet ever’ montages…I’ll be remembered forever as a punchline.”

  Not only was all of that true, but I knew it was falling in line with what they wanted from me.

  He shook his head.

  “I didn’t see it. They had me in interview lockdown. Really wanted to though.”

  I grabbed another slice, letting the mozzarella pull from the box like a shoelace.

  “Well, I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “Oh yeah, I brought these too,” he said.

  The bottle caps emerged, but they weren’t full of beer like I’d assumed.

  “Coke in glass bottles?”

  “Took one from my fridge for you. But don’t tell anyone or they’ll probably say I committed Coke fraud in my next clip! I know you usually drink diet, but real sugar’s needed tonight.”

  “But aren’t they filming us right now?” I felt like I wouldn’t be believable in the slightest to Preston without voicing some amount of skepticism. Afterall, he was doing it to me.

  “Of course the cameras are on all the time. You know that’s why they build the mansions themselves, right? To hide tiny cameras everywhere.”

  “But don’t worry. I know they won’t show this. It’s not part of my character,” he said.

  Character . That word again. At least this time I finally understood.

  I heard the elevator zip up to my floor in the hallway, and my Beam told me to greet one of E.T.’s assistants, but it wasn’t Kara.

  “Ella Windmill, I have a laptop for your fifteen-minute Skype call home to your preselected family member. Mind all the rules.”

  I took my laptop, and the man disappeared as the glass escalator descended.

  “Guess I better go get mine for the weekly call too. Be back i
n a bit,” said Preston.

  “Gonna go call your girlfriend?” I spat out, momentarily forgetting that I was now the one playing him in this game within a game.

  “Why would I do that when I’m talking to her again in a few minutes?”

  He threw his mock question back to me—like he had taken the fire I’d thrown at him and used it to roast a marshmallow for s’mores.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  ♪ You Oughta Know ♪

  * * *

  A lone with the rest of the pizza, I found myself eating a fourth slice, as I worked up the courage to call the only family member I had left. Dad.

  “Hello?” Came his voice, with cotton balls in his throat like at Mom’s funeral.

  I pictured him sitting at the kitchen table, looking at the moonlight on the water.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  “You are?”

  “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I am.”

  I knew I was supposed to say thanks, but his voice sounded like he was trying to push down on the brakes to avoid another accident.

  “You’re on to next week in this show thing. And you sounded good…”

  There was a woman’s voice in the background.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Oh, that’s your aunt. Just been staying at her place down here in Miami for a few weeks.”

  “They let you go on vacation?”

  “You could say they gave me a permanent vacation after that article I wrote about your show.”

  Even through the crackly line, I heard the familiar snap of a beer bottle top flung from its base.

  “What article?”

  “That one you said I should write.”

  “I never said that!” Why had I even called him?

  “Your show’s suing me for chrissakes,” Dad said.

  “Why are you blaming me for screwing up your own life!”

  I heard him gulp down a long swig as if that alone was the answer to my question.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” he said. “And if it wasn’t for your show we’d still have the house and I’d still have a job. But good luck—isn’t that what I’m supposed to say? Good fucking luck.”

  That’s when I hung up on Dad.

  For some reason, I pictured Carrie on the phone with two adoring parents, who, at least in my imagination, looked like George Clooney and Julia Roberts. Tears of pride in their eyes, Carrie on speakerphone—her mother’s string of pearls as perfect as her teeth.

  And what article was Dad even talking about?

  I clicked to search for it on the unblocked Florida Today site.

  America’s Next Star or America’s Next Failure

  By Peter Windmill

  It’s been called “The New Greatest Show on Earth,” and the hundreds of millions of fans of America’s Next Star would agree. However, I have a question for everyone that watches this television program: How can a show that consistently puts singers in danger of performing impossible talents be anything besides a mere spectacle? What does it say about our country, nay, the world, that we watch this show more than say, the President’s State of the Union Address?

  I ate another slice of pizza, hoping the pepperoni would numb my shock. How the hell could he do this to me? And how had no one mentioned it to me? Surely at least E.T. had seen it.

  Apparently, it had been published the day I found out I got on the show.

  But then I realized that he hadn’t found out until the next day when I finally decided to tell him once I was already in LA…

  Instead of finishing the scathing article, I went to YouTube and to search for “Angel of Music.”

  At the top of the list was a screenshot of me and David.

  289,752 Views. 21,074 Downvotes. 42 Upvotes.

  I didn’t even make it to the comments before shoving my fingers down my throat.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  ♪ Wonderful ♪

  * * *

  A ll of the other Comets jumped out of the tour bus when we arrived at Tartuffe’s Salon, in the Modern section of the Universe.

  “So, are you all ready for your makeovers?” Zelina asked. She was wearing a neon green crop top and acid-washed shorts.

  The other Comets screamed. Carrie jumped up and down, her breasts (which, come to think of it, seemed a lot bigger than before) like beach balls rising and falling in the surf. Behind us, fans paying a tremendous amount to vacation in the Universe were kept at a distance from us with velvet ropes.

  “Okay, open your envelopes!”

  There must have been some mistake in mine.

  “What’d you get, Preston?” I asked. It was becoming harder to keep up the appearance that I was infatuated with him, but I had no choice until I figured out how to actually use my intel.

  “I dunno,” he said, as he turned the glossy card over. “It’s blank except for my name.”

  “Will the two Comets with blank makeover cards please come to the front?”

  Preston walked towards Zelina. Then Carrie put one perfectly pedicured foot in front of the other, walking as if she were on a tightrope instead of a stainless-steel sidewalk. What was that expression that Mom would say sometimes? Oh yeah, “Gag me with a wooden spoon.”

  “I have a special surprise for you two! Since we polled Solar Stadium during the live show, and they liked your styles the best, we are keeping you like this because you’re perfect the way you are! And it gets even better! You’re going to film a commercial today for Universe Vacations, and then after go for a sunset cruise on the world’s most advanced yacht and a starry hot air balloon ride. Will there be fireworks? You bet!”

  I was beginning to see what the point of me falling for Preston would be. But how many more love triangles does TV really need?

  Inside the salon, we were lined up in silver chairs facing a wall of mirrors, and a little vase with daisies in it reminded me of May. I bet they would’ve given her colored contacts.

  At least the show seemed okay with my eye color, even though they were going to change pretty much everything else about me. I doubted I would even recognize myself once they were finished.

  Zelina showed up behind me with Tartuffe.

  “Yes, and for Ella, we’re doing platinum hair, black eyebrows, super-long extensions!” she said.

  I pulled at the bottom of my America’s Next Star t-shirt.

  “She doesn’t seem excited about it,” said Tartuffe, as he waved a pair of scissors in the air.

  “What is it Ella?” asked Zelina.

  “It’s just that…I know you mean well…but I’ve never thought of myself as a blonde…And I’m worried I’ll look like Draco from Harry Potter …but in drag.”

  And then I became that one Comet that inevitably cries during the makeover episode.

  Beside me, Diana said, “Yes! I’m going back to an afro!”

  Zelina leaned against the mirror in front of me.

  “I know it seems dramatic, but there’s a reason for it. Last week didn’t go well, and we’ve got to change Solar Stadium’s perception of you. Plus, white hair and bangs will bring out your beautiful eyes!”

  “Ok,” I said, and then I spotted a camera zooming in on me. “Let’s do this!”

  What I first thought was a rat jumped into my lap, causing me to scream.

  “Hey I need that, Ella!” Levi ran to me, grabbing what looked like roadkill from my lap. “My ponytail. Donating it to locks of love. Too bad they don’t accept beard donations, ‘cause this bad boy’s gotta go too.”

  He stroked his long, dark beard with a sigh.

  Fifteen minutes later I had more aluminum foil in my hair than Katherine had used to design Veronica’s outer space costume last season.

  I fought the urge to scratch out my hair, as the peroxide burned my scalp and made my eyes run. Even though I’d steeled myself and committed to the makeover, it still looked like I was crying from the fumes.

  “It’ll be alright, Ella,” screa
med Diana. Her nails were being dipped into a jar of red sequins, and her head was being blasted under a dryer.

  “Thanks, but really, I’m fine. It’s just the fumes.”

  Tanya , a Comet on Tyler’s team that I hadn’t noticed too much before, was now rocking a pink angled bob. She whispered to me, “I don’t think it’s just the fumes.” She had glitter on her eyes and I had to admit they’d done a good job pressing her into the mold of a hyper cool electronica girl.

  “I’ll do your nails now,” said a small woman. She sat on a little rolling stool, and pulled a tube of nail glue from her cart.

  “Your nails are very short. Good thing they’re giving you fake.”

  “Nails” really wasn’t what she was affixing to my fingers at all. They were talons so pointy that I couldn’t say for sure if they’d even be allowed through airport security.

  Zee swirled by my chair carrying what appeared to be white curtains.

  “Your extensions have been dyed! You’re going to look like a unicorn—minus the horn, uh, and the colors, of course!”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  ♪ Kitty ♪

  * * *

  B ack in the mansion for breakfast the next morning, my hands looked as alien to me as my eyes looked extraterrestrial to everyone else. I felt like a clumsy cat that had just found its claws—and I had the red scratch marks all over my arms to prove it.

  Get this—one of the nails even had a spike that extended on both sides of it.

  “Cool nails, Ella,” said Preston.

  “How was the hot air balloon?” I asked.

  Carrie didn’t look up from her sheet music, only pausing to push away a bowl full of sliced kiwis.

  “It was…fun,” he said.

  I looked at the seat May would have been sitting in, and imagined her there, munching on her rainbow cereal.

  “Man, I can’t get used to it,” Levi said, rubbing his bare cheeks. His hair was fashioned into the kind of mohawk that I imagine Marie Antoinette would have picked in the unlikely route she went in that direction—hair so big and so high that it seemed like a magic trick that a human head could even support it.